


Muse

by sp00kworm



Category: House of Wax (2005)
Genre: Ambrose - Freeform, Art, Blood, Chases, Cooking, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Horror, Jokes, Love, M/M, Non-specific gender, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Slasher, Soft Wax Man Vincent, Swearing, Though he's still dangerous, Threats, Violence, Wax working, and thinks you're pretty/handsome af, body issues, cursing, do not be fooled, soft, tied-up, vincent is just soft and nice okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 17:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21359785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp00kworm/pseuds/sp00kworm
Summary: Ambrose was a ghost town. More than that, it was a town you regretted ever having stepped foot in. Alongside the barely functioning garage and fuel station, there was old looking homes, the wood painted but peeling in most places. The old lady that peered through her window had ignored you, turning back to her too loud TV all too quickly. That was when Bo, the local station worker, had found you wandering around, and took you into the depths of the famous town, straight into the lair of the wax worker.
Relationships: Bo Sinclair/Reader, Vincent Sinclair/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 101





	Muse

Ambrose was a ghost town. More than that, it was a town you regretted ever having stepped foot in. Alongside the barely functioning garage and fuel station, there was old looking homes, the wood painted but peeling in most places. The old lady that peered through her window had ignored you, turning back to her too loud TV all too quickly. That was when Bo, the local station worker, had found you wandering around, quick to give you a crooked smile, his cold eyes crinkled at the corners with crows’ feet. You’d believed it. His smile had lured you into the garage and the blow to the back of your head had come all too quickly. The room span after the spanner smashed you over the back of your cranium, lacerating the skin, and Bo had watched you fall with a sickening grin, grabbing you by the cheeks, pursing your lips so he could get a better look at you.

“Vincent sure will like you, dollface, not that I don’t like a pretty face, but you’re far too ‘delicate’ looking for me.” Bo drawled over you, holding your face tight still as he strode over to his workstation. He pulled a bag of zip ties out from the drawer and kicked you over with a whistle.

“Nice ass on you too.” The kick he received for the comment quickly caused him to growl and drag you by the legs, cracking your head back against the concrete floor.

Stars swam in your vision as you were dragged closer to the zip ties. Bo gripped three between his teeth before he sat over your hips pressing you into the floor, ensuring there was no escape as he grappled your hands backwards and bound the wrists with one tight zip tie. The other two were fixed together and wrapped around your ankles, holding you fast and stopping you from wiggling away from him. Your knees were wrapped with a few rounds of duct tape before Bo let you slump back against the cool concrete.

“It’ll not end real nice for you if you act up again, sweets.” Bo’s head twitched, chewing something on his back teeth as he looked down at you.

“Fuck you, you psycho fucker.” You clamped your mouth shut as he dragged the duct tape open again with a threatening rip. His head tilted before he moved back to his drawer and placed it away, bringing over as strip of duct tape to slap over your mouth. Your howling behind the tape was muffled as he grappled you by your wrists and dragged you to the pickup, chewing a new piece of gum as he threw you into the back of the pickup truck. The third crack to the head didn’t help much, and you groaned behind the tape as Bo dragged himself into the driver’s seat.

It was a short drive up to the house, and Bo was quick to saunter over to the back of the truck and drag open the latch, dropping the back panel so he could grab at your legs. Wiggling against the metal, you tried your best to snap your legs out and kick him in the face. The man grinned, chewing his gum on the other side of his mouth as he watched you squirm.

“Now, now, dollface, we don’t want you bruised and battered none, but I suppose Vince will fix up any marks.” He grabbed you by the wrists again and hauled you from the truck, slinging you roughly over his shoulder, carrying you with a heave, towards an old looking house. The paint was peeling off the wood like the rest of the town, and you wiggled as Bo carried you through the front door before receiving a crack to the ass and a bark of laughter from Bo, harsh and low as he moved through the dining room and headed towards a dark corner of the house, holding you by the backside as he heaved open a hatch door. Wind rushed at the two of you as Bo flung the small door open and jolted you on top of his shoulder.

“Vincent! I found a delicate one for ya!” Bo announced down the waxy staircase, before hefting you off his shoulder and placing you on the floor, “Safe journey’s sweetness.” He chewed his gum before kicking you down the stairs, smirking cruelly as you collapsed in a bruised heap at the bottom. Your eyes widened as Bo slammed the heavy hatch shut, the bolt clicking back into place as he whistled proudly, disappearing back into the house, leaving you in the dim light of the candles on the wall.

“Real pretty Vincent!” Bo hollered before doors slammed and the noise of the truck pulling away, grunge rock blasting from the stereo, rumbled through the floorboards. The dim lights were barely enough to see by, and the candles were just as bad. You squinted into the darkness, wondering if this Vincent was the same person you had seen mark his name on all the wax creations in the little museum.

A clink sounded in the darkness, the soft pat of something against someone’s thigh as they walked through the soft, wax covered hallway. You looked down the dark hall and squirmed, tugging at the zip ties desperately as a slim figure peered at you from the gloom, an old-fashioned gas light clutched in his hand. As he drew closer, a thick woollen jumper covered by an apron, heavy duty cargo trousers and thick boots came into your sight. His hair was long, the ends coated in a few blobs of paraffin wax. As he reached you, you noticed the ghostly mask over his face, a smooth perfect wax face to hide behind, though his hair was entirely real, knotty yet soft looking. He squatted next to you, soft, wax coated fingers running over the bindings, making sure you weren’t about to squirm free, resist or hurt him. His dark eye looked at the bruises and red, raw marks from the ties, his fingers tapping at the sores.

His hand tugged the duct tape away from your mouth when he noticed your heavy breathing. The tape tore away hair as it went, and you flinched before gulping air down, trying to push away from the wax covered man before you. At least now, you had no doubts about who made the figures and paintings.

“You’re Vincent?” You asked quietly, watching him nod once, softly, his hair flopping around his shoulders, “Your artwork is really amazing.”

The killer before you tilted his head as you tried and failed to sit up. His art was never appreciated by anyone. Lester perhaps enjoyed hooting about it, and Bo smirked at the new wax figures, but never did any visitor have anything positive to say. They were creepy and weird, to find two of the less vulgar comments.

His fingers stretched as he contemplated your words.

“I saw the statues too. The paintings and figures. It’s all amazing. The landscape painting was of the mountains, right?” You watched his hair fall over his face before he nodded, fingers plucking at his waxy, faded apron.

Vincent almost felt the need to shyly play with his hands, and for a minute he forgot about what Bo wanted him to do with you. He watched you wiggle through the curtain of his hair before he took hold of your wrists and began to drag you backwards, along the soft, wax coated corridor.

“The little figurines were so pretty as well. The crocodile was amazingly done. I wish I could have one...” You babbled behind him as he dragged you towards the room that he used to make the works. He looked over his shoulder as you talked, noting the features he would need to best preserve when you were coated. After a moment, he realised that perhaps covering you in wax so fast would be detrimental. He paused in his dragging, looking at you, noticing the tears drip down your cheeks as you chattered. Vincent tried to ignore the increasing sniffling as he pulled you through the dirty hallway and towards the hot room of molten wax. Despite his lithe appearance, Vincent easily grappled you and pulled you onto the tabletop.

A handkerchief floated into your view as tears dripped over your cheeks. Vincent held it out, not daring to look at your face. He stiffened, before realising that you couldn’t take it from him. He placed the white cloth aside before pulling a long hunting knife free from his thigh. The blade glinted.

“Are you going to make me pretty, Vincent?” You asked softy as the blade drew closer.

Vincent snapped the zip tie around your wrists open with the tip of the hooked end of the blade and picked up the handkerchief again before leaning over to dab at the tears on your face.

A strange laugh escaped you as you looked at his shadowed eye holes and wax blotted hair, “Thank you, Vincent. I appreciate it.” The man nodded once, stiffly, sheathing his blade before he looked around, left to right, quickly moving to grab a notebook from the desk, cluttered with small figures, drawings and wax sculpting tools.

Vincent returned and tilted his head, looking you over before writing with a pencil in the notebook.

_“Which piece was your favourite?” _He held it up, close enough for you to read in the yellow, dim lights.

You held the handkerchief in front of your face for a moment, wondering if this was worth it, though it wasn’t a lie that you loved the artwork you’d seen before being smashed over the head by Bo.

“The mountain piece.” You uttered with a watery smile, wiping at your cheeks.

He nodded and scribbled on the notepad, hesitating before he dared to show you it, _“I’m glad you liked it. You’re safe.”_ He tilted his head before continuing to scribble, _“Bo won’t come down here.”_ He offered the page again and fiddled with the pencil, pushing his thumb harshly on the end.

“Does he not like your art?” You asked as you shifted, trying to get some feeling back into your bound legs.

Noticing your discomfort Vincent thumbed the pencil nervously again before writing slowly, _“If you promise not to run, I will cut you free.” _He offered the page to you and held the handle of one of his bone handled hunting knives. Swallowing, you nodded, before Vincent slid the knife free and with two swift cuts, had your legs free.

“Thank you, Vincent.” You nodded, rubbing your legs, trying to soothe the aches and soreness of them.

_“You’re welcome.”_ He offered before placing the book down by you and leaning down, taking your calf in his hand roughly, looking at the vicious sores around your ankles, lifting your trouser leg timidly. You flinched as he prodded the hot skin around the watery, blistered sore. He didn’t let you move away until he was willing, and then turned to fetch a metal medical trolley. The contraptions on top of it appeared vicious, suturing needles, tongs of various sizes and thick medical wire for stitching great wounds shut. Your eyes widened and Vincent shook his head before opening a small toolbox, pulling out of it a small tube of antiseptic cream. He waited a moment before moving to wash his hands first, returning only then to uncap the cream and begin gently rubbing it over the sores.

Hissing softly in pain, you let him wipe the cream over your ankles first before he dared to gently take hold of your forearms and touch your wrists. His curtain of dark hair hid him from you as he worked, methodically.

“Are you a doctor Vincent?” The sores stung as the cream sunk into them slowly.

Vincent nodded slowly before wiping his fingers on the handkerchief from earlier and reaching for his pencil.

_“I learned a lot of it from my father.” _He wrote out elegantly, _“He was a lot more talented than me.” _The man placed away his notebook before closing the toolbox and pushing the cart away from the medical table. Nervousness gnawed at his guts. Bo would be furious about this and that thought made him consider the knife at his hip again. The conflict waged on as you rubbed your thighs and slid from the table. His arm was quickly out, stopping you from toppling over into the cage for posing the wax figures.

“Is that what you use to make them?” Your eyes went wide at the various pins and bolts, almost as though it was to hold a person inside and keep them still.

_“Yes.” _He wrote quickly, yet that was all, no long explanation about anything.

“That’s what you want to do to me isn’t it?” You asked quietly.

Vincent hesitated, his finger pushing the end of the pencil, the rubber long gone from the end, before he wrote again, _“No.” _

“Why not? You did it to all the others.” You placed the medical trolley between you and Vincent, looking him in the eyes as he fiddled with the pencil nervously.

Vincent scrawled with the pencil quickly, _“If you run, you’ll die.” _Hoping that you wouldn’t take it as a threat he reached for you, offering his hand shyly before moving closer, almost like he was approaching a startled animal. You let him have your hand and sighed, feeling tears burning your eyes as Vincent sat you gently on a stool, fiddling with the notebook and the pencil, making room on his desk for it around his figurines and charcoal and pencil drawings.

You reached for a figurine, trying to hold back your tears as you touched the cool wax gently, looking at the swan, its wings spread backwards gracefully. Vincent took his notebook back again and looked at your face, watching you smile at the swan, the way that you held it, the way that your hair fell. He drew over the page in rough shapes before turning back to the one he was writing on.

_“You need to get out of sight before Bo comes back.” _His head tilted as he stood, ushering you into another small hallway, damp and dark, lit by an electric lamp, the wires sparking every now and then.

“Where are we going?” Vincent continued to drag you down the hallway until you reached a small room. He opened the warped door and revealed a toasty warm bedroom, the cot shoved in the corner and dishes laid over the side table. He most definitely got distracted enough to never take his plastic trays and plates up to be washed or thrown away.

“You live in here? Do you not have a room upstairs?” You asked as Vincent played with the pocket of his apron. A nod was your answer. So, he did have space upstairs, “You just prefer to be down here?” You asked again, feeling bad for overloading the obvious recluse of a man with so many questions.

Vincent took his notebook back into his hand and scribbled again in pretty cursive, _“Bo is scared I’ll get hurt if I go out. I get caught up working and just sleep here most days.” _He poised his pencil for the next question’s response as you sat on the very edge of his bed.

“It looks like none of you can cook.” Jokingly, you wiggled one of the plastic trays from a microwave meal before him and watched him shrug and shake his head.

_“Lester sometimes does roadkill stews.” _Vincent offered via the page.

“Okay, that sounds horrendous.” You laughed before yawning. Vincent looked at a small gap above ground, the window dirty and clouded, but revealing that it was, in fact, night-time now.

_“You can sleep. Nothing will happen I promise.” _He offered before shuffling his stuff together, taking his sketching stuff away from you. The door closed before you could protest, leaving you with the lamp and nerves chewing into your guts. Hesitantly, you laid over the mattress and looked at the oil lamp, hoping that Vincent was true to his word and kept Bo well away from you.

You awoke the next day to the sound of slamming doors.

“Where the fuck did ya’ put ‘em, Vince?” Bo hollered, fear lacing his tone as he moved along the corridor, drawing closer. You heard a hand slam on the door and jolted up, scrambling, trying to find somewhere to hide. The wooden box and hanging rail were not options and you jumped as another hand cracked by the handle of the door.

“Oh, so you wanna keep this one, huh?” Bo’s voice was tempered now, milder, though he was irritated and chewing a wooden toothpick all too loudly outside the door, “Open the door and I’ll be the judge of whether or not ya can keep ‘em.”

The lock clicked quietly, and Vincent peered in first, wax mask tilted before he opened the wood to reveal Bo, his arms crossed, and a smirk sat across his features.

“Never knew you’d wanna keep one, Vince. Was sure you had no interest in people.” Bo sauntered in, looking at the mess with something close to an eyeroll before he looked down at you and the sores over your wrists, which were slowly healing.

Slowly, the man knelt before you, eyeing you from the side, “I’ll let ya stay here with Vincent with a few conditions. I have no doubt if you run Vincent would gut you before you could reach the door, but I think you’re worth more than being his little…Pet.” Bo tugged his cap off, dark eyes wild for a moment before he called Vincent over from lurking in the doorway.

“You said they can cook?” Bo asked Vincent, almost gentle. Vincent shrugged his shoulders, brushing his long hair from his face as Bo grumbled.

“I’ll let ya stay if ya take up the cooking duties, maybe help out a little. I’m sure Vincent can arrange for somewhere for ya to sleep.” He leaned over, lips close to your ear, “He likes to have muses but if I find out that you so much as laid a finger on ‘im, I’ll take the fingers and make ya eat them before I splay yer guts over the floor.”

A mute nod was enough for him and Bo stood up again with a scoff, pulling Vincent’s sketch book from the desk, “Really, Vince? Tits out an’ all?” He tossed it to his brother, “Expected that from Lester, not you.” Bo shook his head, in mock disappointment, before smirking at you and disappearing down the hall, whistling as he went.

Embarrassment screamed from Vincent as he rushed to collect his drawings and sketches. One fluttered from his grasp and you snatched it before his long fingers could. It was a drawing of you with the swan yesterday, scarily realistic with your hair falling just as though you had just moved to peer down at the swan.

“You made me look…Well…nicer than I am.” You uttered.

Vincent hid behind his hair before writing in the corner of the page of his sketchbook, _“You are pretty.” _

A blush crept onto your cheeks before you held out the drawing for him to take back, catching sight of the drawing of you stretching over the sketchbook, chest out and backside turned to face the person looking in the perspective. You pretended to ignore it before moving towards the door. A tight hand caught you as you moved, holding your bicep tight, a pleading eye looking at you through the holes in the mask.

“Someone has to cook around here, no?” You smiled, and Vincent let go, watching you leave, his hands playing with the ends of his sleeves before he dared to follow you, eyes watching in wonder as your living form moved.

A day turned into a week and a week turned into a month. Time seemed to pass quickly if you busied yourself around Ambrose, alone or with Bo. Vincent was reluctant to follow the two of you out unless it was to set up a new scene within the town. He’d simply watch you leave and write out a quick, _“Be careful.”_, waving to the two of you as you headed into the town.

“Bo?” You heard him sigh from under the truck, hand reaching for a wrench, fingers patting the ground around it, trying to find the end, “Why didn’t Vincent make me into one of the statues that day?”

Bo rolled out from under the car to try and find his tool, grabbing it, spinning it around his fist before he shrugged lazily, pushing the gum from one side of his mouth to the other, “Vincent has a thing for pretty things, I’ll admit, but he never keeps ‘em alive long enough really. He finds everyone pretty, but ya have to be stunning to him for him to keep ya around, man or woman.” The man smirked, wiping his other hand down his overalls before disappearing back under the bottom of the family’s broken truck.

“Are you trying to tell me I’m attractive?” You scoffed and peered under the bonnet to see Bo’s shit eating grin.

“Course I am, doll face.” Bo shook his head, “Anyone would like the ass you got.”

“Nice, thanks, Bo.” You flipped him off underneath the truck before climbing over to the back and stomping on the back of the trailer, watching the car bounce downwards before you took off back to the house.

“You little fucker!” Bo hollered from under the car at your cackling, appearing with clenched teeth as he held his head. 

You escaped through the front door before Bo could give chase and made sure to throw the middle finger to him again out the window before moving to make sure that dinner wasn’t burning. It was fine, bubbling away happily as pasta cooked between thick layers of beefy tomato sauce and cheese. You closed to oven and jumped a mile high as Vincent stood behind you, holding his notebook. He’d tried to teach you a little sign language, but your understanding wasn’t good enough to have a full conversation, and Vincent often struggled to talk for extended periods of time.

_“What’s for dinner?” _He wrote carefully.

“Oh, its lasagne! There was a lot of leftover mince, so I thought I’d use it up. Are you thinking about eating with us?” You watched him shake his head then nod before playing with the sleeves of his jumper. He was hiding something in the arm of it, “What’s that in your arm there, Vince?”

The artist shrugged, his hair flopping over his wax cheeks as he pencilled a response, _“Its for you.” _Then, with a glance at your confused face, he pulled out a new, small wax sculpture. It was a figure with great large angel wings, holding themselves aloft and clutching at silk covering their body. It was done in such detail the clothes were pictured moving.

“This is amazing, Vincent!” You took it from his hands reverently, turning it carefully, looking at the pictured person with a large smile, “Who is it meant to be?”

Vincent’s large boot scuffed against the tiles before you heard him open his mouth and take a breath. A hoarse noise escaped him before he managed to utter a few words, “You. You…are pretty.” His voice was groggy and whispery, light in your ears as he struggled to pronounce the words with his scarred face. Reluctantly, he reached for your hand, squeezing it tightly.

Blushing you took it gently and smiled, “I’m not this attractive.” You held up the statue before taking a step forwards, looking at Vincent’s dark eye as you leaned up on you tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his wax cheek. His hand tightened, flinching before he let you kiss the mask. Afterwards, you pressed a kiss to his palm, watching him relax.

“You…are.” He whispered, a hand stroking your cheek.

“Well one day then, I hope I can convince you that you’re attractive and gorgeous too.”

Vincent chuckled softly, the noise quiet, before he hugged you gently, hands holding you against him as he simply looked at what was now his, hoping that this muse would love him back as much as he loved them.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Bo and Vincent equally and I would die for either of them. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I look forwards to seeing you all on the Bo piece I'm now writing!
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
